


A Manor of Thine Own

by Sabazius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ex-Auror Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Journalist Draco Malfoy, M/M, Malevolent Architecture, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29787798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabazius/pseuds/Sabazius
Summary: Harry thought 12 Grimmauld Place was just run-down. Turns out, it needs a master of the house, and Harry isn't it, Draco Malfoy is. Can the stubborn ex-Auror convince the annoyingly peppy journalist to give him his house back? Will the house accept it? Might this sequence of events lead to their inevitable loving union? Read on to find out!
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Not everything is tolling for thee all the time, Potter

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me and demanded to be fleshed out. I've no strict upload schedule but will be releasing chapters as they're written, which is likely to be once or twice a week. If you've read another story with a very similar premise, please don't send it to me or I might never finish this one. Comments and reviews make me want to write more!
> 
> The work's title is a reference to John Donne's poem, *No Man is an Island*, which you don't have to read to appreciate the story, but is very good anyway.

As the last echoes of chiming bells soaked into the moth-eaten tapestries that lined the hallway, Harry reached the top of the staircase. Wand gripped tightly in his hand and blood pumping in his ears, he stared incredulously at the tarnished set of bells that sat discreetly above the front door of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

It wasn't just that the doorbells had  _ rung _ , although that was a surprise in and of itself—Hermione, Ron, the other Weasleys, were keyed to the floo—but Harry had no recollection of the house even having a doorbell, let alone actual bells, plural. Neville and Luna could floo, Kingsley sent an owl when he just wanted to check in, and would have used a Patronus for an emergency—

His train of thought was cut off by the doorbells ringing again. Before he could change his mind, Harry found himself striding down the stairs. He was suddenly filled with a sense of righteous fury. Hadn't it been long enough? Hadn't he made himself clear? Whoever it was  _ had _ to know that he didn't want… whatever they wanted from him. It had been six sodding months since he'd finally snapped at a press conference, told every journalist in the room just what he thought of them, and retired from the Aurors and from public life. At this point, he felt well within his rights to curse anyone who dared to set a foot uninvited on his doorstep.

He wrenched the door open, three nonverbal spells half-formed in his mind, to find an empty street. There was nobody there. He poked his head out and looked around. The sky was cloudy, but not murky. A pigeon fluttered from a tree in the park across the road. Was it an animagus, he wondered? Or perhaps, right at this second, someone was pointing a camera at him from a window across the street, desperate for something, anything to spin into an article about 'The Boy Who Hid'?

A full minute passed as Harry watched. He couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. Anger ebbing, he withdrew his head and looked up at the bells again, now silent. He poked his head out to examine the door. No button.

Now bewildered, Harry shut the front door and retreated slowly toward the staircase. The bells remained silent. He sat down on the bottom stair, slightly scared of the conclusion he reached: if there was nobody there, then it must be the house.

It wasn't the first time the house had done something weird, of course. Since the very first day Harry had returned to Grimmauld Place after graduating from Hogwarts, he had been convinced the house was messing with him. Doors would stick when he tried to open them, then fall open when he shoved as if enticing him to trip; he was forever placing something down and then losing it for weeks, before finding it in a place he was  _ sure _ he'd checked; and he was absolutely certain that the hot and cold taps sometimes switched places when he was showering.

Yet in all that time, Harry had never seen something just appear like that. Everything else, as Hermione had told him with increasing exasperation, sounded a lot like Harry's characteristic lack of perception when it came to anything other than life-threatening danger. This, though, this was new. Houses didn't just manifest bells that chimed just like a doorbell. 

Harry stood up and headed to the kitchen, planning to find some parchment and owl Hermione, see if this would show her that something odd was going on. An instant later, the plan fell from his mind when he opened the kitchen door to see the unmistakable back of Draco Malfoy's head, covered in blood, slumped on his kitchen table.

* * *

"Malfoy?"

Malfoy lifted his head slowly from the table and turned to look at Harry, bleary-eyed.

"Potter? What am I doing here?" he said, reaching gingerly to feel the back of his head and looking with detached curiosity at the blood that coated his fingertips.

"What do you mean, what are you doing here? I should be asking you that! Why are you bleeding in my fucking kitchen?" Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Your kitchen? I thought you lived in the Black house?"

Harry ignored him. "Is that your blood? Are you injured? How did you get here?" Malfoy blinked once, slowly, then nodded."Yes, Potter, it's my blood. I'm fine, though, it's not serious. I'll be leaving shortly."

He looked around, as if taking in his surroundings properly for the first time. "Is this actually Grimmauld Place? It looks like a dump, Potter, what did you do?" Harry didn't even have time to answer before Malfoy pushed himself to his feet and strode towards him, continuing "You know what? Never mind, I'm going. Sorry for disrupting your day."

Harry was so dumbstruck by the suddenness of Malfoy's appearance—and, of all things, an apology, even one thrown out so casually—that he nearly failed to catch him as he passed Harry on his way to the front door, already casting cleaning spells on his clothes and hair.

"Wait a second! You just show up in my kitchen, which I have no idea how you did by the way, bleeding, and now you're just going to walk out?"

Malfoy sighed and turned, tucking his wand away. "I can't tell you what happened, Potter, but I'm fine, it won't happen again, I'm going to leave and can you forget all about me and get back to whatever you do with yourself these days, okay?" He made to move towards the door again, until Harry cried out in desperation, "Did you make the doorbells appear?"

Malfoy froze, then slowly turned around. "Did you say 'doorbells'? Damn it."

"What?"

"I am afraid that I own your house."

"…what!?"

* * *

"…then the Lord of the Manor—Andromeda didn't tell you any of this? for shame—performs the warding ritual  _ with _ the head house elf, if one exists, which if you don't have a single house elf, then you're probably not in this situation in the first place…" Harry had long lost track of what Malfoy was talking about, still stuck on his first pronouncement: 12 Grimmauld Place had recognised Draco Malfoy as the Black Heir and apparently Harry no longer had any claim to the property.

He held up a hand, before realising Malfoy wasn't even looking at him as he rattled off yet more descriptions of intricate rituals, and interrupted, "But, this house was left to me. My—my godfather owned the house, he died, I inherited it, you can't just waltz in here and take it away from me!"

Malfoy looked at him with an expression that, on anyone else, Harry would characterise as pity. "I don't want your house, Potter, it wants me. Haven't you noticed it acting out?" 

"No, I haven't!" Harry could tell that Malfoy didn't believe him, but pressed on gamely, "I mean, the house isn't exactly  _ nice _ , I've tried redecorating but it doesn't take to the walls, but some things are just like that."

Malfoy snorted. "Potter, things are not 'just like that'. It's a magical property, it recognises its owner based on magical signatures and blood wards and many other factors. Hell, you're not even one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, which might not matter to most people nowadays but knowing what I've heard about Walburga, makes me surprised you haven't been seriously injured just trying to live here, let along trying to redecorate." Apparently unhindered by a normal human's need for oxygen, Malfoy continued to talk as Harry sat there, growing increasingly pissed off, until:

"Alright Malfoy, shut up. What are we going to do about it?" Malfoy, to his credit, did shut up. For a second. "I have no idea, Potter. Assuming you don't want to swear allegiance to my name, you can keep trying to live here, but it probably won't be pleasant, especially now the house has found a new Heir to follow that isn't an imposter—" seeing Harry's face, he quickly continued "—as far as the house sees it, I mean. Look, the Black vaults are all yours, money works differently, but noble houses work like this. Obviously, people other than lords and their heirs live in houses, but… it's like a dog, Potter. I can't just tell it to be loyal to you if you smell wrong."

Harry gritted his teeth. "I don't care what you say. This sounds like utter rubbish. I don't care how you got in here, unless you can tell me how to make sure it never happens again. Just go away and leave me and my house alone."

Malfoy stood up, pushing back his—no, Harry's chair, in Harry's bloody kitchen, where he'd showed up unannounced and inexplicable and still bloody irritating. "Look, Potter, I've tried to explain this and I have things to do. I'm not going to kick you out, you're welcome to try and keep living here. I'm going to leave and you can pretend this never happened. Alright? Fine."

Without waiting for a response, he left. This time, Harry made no effort to stop him. He was too busy clenching and unclenching his fists and trying very hard not to hex someone who had just had a head injury. He heard the front door close and sat there in the silence for a moment, before standing up, walking to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of floo powder and tossing it out, crying out "Hermione Granger's office!"

* * *

Hermione was flushed with apology. "I read up on house warding stuff when Bill set everything up for Ron and I, but it's been a while and, well, there's just not a lot of publicly available literature on this kind of thing, Harry." She frowned as she continued, "Some of the pureblood families have written things down, but it's all kept in private libraries and with how wards have been developed over the centuries it's all very personal to the families anyway. I expect some of it's even passed down through oral traditions, or through magical paintings."

Harry sighed and leaned back against the wall. Hermione's office didn't merit a second chair, according to Derek Grimslade, her superior in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Not that there was room for it, with the mountains of paperwork, but he still felt awkward seeing her crammed into such a small room.

"Okay, but you must have an idea of who I should talk to next, right? Do you think Bill would know anything about it? Or Arthur, for that matter?" Hermione shrugged unhappily and Harry saw her eyes straying back to the document she'd been heavily annotating when he'd arrived. "Sorry, I'm distracting you. I can dig on my own. Still got some investigatory powers left in me." He put on a perfunctory grin, which she met with a beleaguered but affectionate smile of her own.

"Oh, Harry, I'm sorry. And don't put yourself down, your taking a break has nothing to do with your capability, I know that. Why don't you talk to Radgarg and tell me what he says over dinner tomorrow?" At the look on Harry's face, she hurried to add, "at our house, I mean, we don't have to eat out. We'll get a takeaway?"

Radgarg was a goblin, who since the War had acted as Harry's official financial advisor and unofficial legal advisor. It was a good idea, and it had been too long since he'd joined Hermione and Ron for dinner. He leant over the desk and pecked her on the cheek. "Thanks, 'Mione. I'll talk to Radgarg. And I'll see you tomorrow" he added, slightly guiltily. She smiled, a warm and genuine smile for the first time since he'd set foot in her office. "Don't work yourself too hard, okay?" he said as he reached into the floo pot over her fireplace. She waved him away, attention already firmly back on her paperwork.

Harry stepped back into the kitchen of Grimmauld place, petulantly  _ scourgified _ the chair in which Malfoy had been sat, and found a parchment and quill. Hermione was right: Radgarg would know what was going on, and exactly how to get Malfoy to leave him alone. Harry was sure of it.

* * *

"I cannot say whether Mr Malfoy was telling the truth about being the master of this property, but I can confirm that the house doesn't seem to acknowledge you as its master. The fact he was able to enter despite your extensive warding suggests he was being honest. As for what you can do about it, there is nothing to be done. Wizarding buildings follow the laws writ in magic by their creators, not property legislation." Radgarg prodded the kitchen stove with a long claw and sniffed at the air. "In fact, I expect the only reason a house this malicious has allowed you to stay in it so long without actively killing you is because you possess such immense power that you've been magically escaping traps that would kill other people without noticing."

This was what Harry liked about Radgarg: he was knowledgeable, he was blunt, he didn't give a shit about Harry's celebrity status. He just did what he was paid very handsomely to do, which at first was handle Harry's finances when the Gringotts goblins refused to let him onto the premises. Over time, though, his position had expanded until he managed Harry's investment portfolio, advised him on legal matters and even, at a cost that probably wiped out what he'd earned Harry in the last four months, made house calls at a moment's notice to talk about wards. 

None of this, however, was particularly comforting in light of the news that his house wasn't  _ his _ any more and there was nothing he could do about it. He looked at Radgarg helplessly, who made a noise that Harry suspected was a sigh, and said "My recommendation is that you talk to Mr Malfoy about it. Technically, you own the land the house is on, he might wish to buy it from you; as a blood descendant of the Black line, he might have access to information about how to transfer ownership of the property. Certainly there's nobody else alive who could help you, and I doubt she"—he gestured to the hallway where a painting of Walpurga Black hung behind a heavy curtain—"would have any inclination to assist you, for a variety of obvious reasons."

Harry groaned and slumped over the table. Radgarg gave the barest hint of a pause before saying "If that is all, I will add my fee to your monthly report. Let me know if you need assistance negotiating the sale, I'll have Willard draw up the contract." With that, he marched off down the hallway to the front door. 

Harry sat in silence, head on table, for several minutes. He was coming to the unwelcome realisation that, just maybe, there wasn't a way out of this situation that didn't involve him having to ask for help from one of his least favourite people. Then there was a groaning noise from the sink. He looked up just in time to see the tap shift slightly and begin to leak with an obnoxious hissing sound. It felt very much like the house was laughing at him. 

There was nothing else for it. He would have to open a dialogue with Draco Malfoy.


	2. Tea and no sympathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco negotiate a meeting, which goes brilliantly.

> Potter,  
> 
> 
> As I said the other day, there are things that one can do in situations like this to make the house recognise an occupant as a member of the family, but I doubt they’d be of interest to you. I have no need of your money, thank you.
> 
> DM

> Malfoy,  
> 
> 
> The house might not think so, but I inherited it from Sirius and I’m not giving it up. Can you come over and just try? There must be something you want from me.  
> 
> 
> Harry Potter

> Potter, I’m actually quite busy at the moment. Have you looked in the Black library for information? Assuming you can access it, of course. And that you haven’t lost the ability to read since Hogwarts. Set Granger loose on it, I’m sure she’ll dig something up for you. I suppose you could buy me lunch at Ristra de Ajos on the Alley tomorrow and we can discuss?  
> 
> 
> DM

> Malfoy,
> 
> You owe me an explanation. Never mind who owns the house, you turned up in the place I live, apparently unplanned, bleeding from the head. What exactly are you so busy with? Is it the kind of thing that would interest the Auror department? How about you come over to my house—through the front door this time—and we’ll talk. I’m free all day.  
> 
> 
> Potter

> Potter,
> 
> Fine.
> 
> DM

* * *

Aside from the previous day, Harry hadn't spoken to Malfoy in six years or so. In fact, he didn't even remember the last interaction they'd had; after Malfoy's trial, they had both returned to Hogwarts to complete their education, but Harry struggled to recall their paths crossing. Nevertheless, he was aware that he'd essentially threatened Malfoy to get him to come over. Harry hated leveraging his reputation, but something about the blond brought it out in him, and he was almost looking forward to a fight like the old days. This made Malfoy's unruffled appearance and practically cheery greeting slightly underwhelming when he showed up, less than fifteen minutes after his last owl.

"You've been so insistent on bringing me here, Potter, are you going to let me in or are we chatting on the doorstep? Only I was under the impression you valued your privacy these days." Malfoy was sarcastic as he'd ever been, but as Harry stared at him, he couldn't see a trace of the trademark sneer on his old rival's face. He nodded stiffly and stepped back, allowing Malfoy to enter.

"Merlin, it's bleak in here isn't it?" he said, shrugging off his scarf and effortlessly tossing it onto the coat hook that usually dropped Harry's dress robes in a puddle on the tiled floor. "Really, Potter, I get that you have a sentimental attachment to the place, but couldn't you take some photographs, get a portrait of your godfather and buy a flat in Islington with, oh, I don't know, windows?"

"Thanks for the advice, Malfoy, I didn't realise you were in real estate these days" Harry shot back, following him into the kitchen. Despite his best efforts, the tap had continued to dribble all night; Harry made the best of it and filled up the kettle, sending it to the stove and lighting it with a flick of his wand before sitting down opposite Malfoy, who was already making himself comfortable.

"Look, I don't really care what you're up to, but I like this house. I just want to live here and get on with my life and if you can help me do that, I'll…" he trailed off, realising he had no idea what Malfoy might want from him. "I'll, erm, owe you one?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

"Much as I'd like to be owed one by you for a change, I'm reasonably certain I already owe you more life debts than I could ever hope to fulfil. If you weren't the shining example of Gryffindor honour, I'd be worried. Honestly, Potter, I'd like to help you. I don't want this house. But I also don't have much of an idea of what to do about it. In an ancient house, the bells ring to welcome their new Lord home. Usually they'd ring after a funeral, the first time the heir steps foot in after his father's been interred. The manor—" here he cut himself off, a brief flicker of what looked like surprise crossing his face.

He blinked and shook his head, shifting the white-gold fringe away from his eyes. Harry couldn't help but check the spot where, just yesterday, he'd seen Malfoy bleeding heavily, but his forehead was unmarked. Not a curse, then, a physical injury of some sort?

Malfoy glared at the tap, which stopped dripping instantly, and continued, "Anyway, that's common knowledge among a pureblood, at least one with a, shall we say, traditionally rounded education, but beyond that… Potter?"

Harry started, realising he'd been caught staring at Malfoy's head. His eyes shot down to meet Malfoy's gaze, feeling himself begin to flush. Malfoy's lip quirked, his expression opaque, and asked, "Tea?" The kettle had boiled. Harry nodded and stood, busying himself with the pot and leaves. Behind him, now safely out of view, Malfoy continued.

"As I was saying, the library would be the place to look for more information, but really, the problem is that the house decides who it recognises. It's like… it's like the Sorting Hat. The house can tell if you're one of the family or not, and it just doesn't see Black in you." Harry set a cup of tea in front of him, which he picked up and sipped, not commenting on the fact that it was prepared exactly as he had taken it at school.

Harry couldn't hold back any longer. "What happened to your head yesterday? Why did you even come here in the first place? I think I have a right to know that, don't I?" Malfoy grimaced, but nodded, set his tea cup down and pulled up his sleeve to reveal a plain silver bangle on his wrist.

"I was brought here by this. It's meant to detect when the wearer is in danger and portkey them to a safe place. using the wearer's magical aura to determine danger and safety, and bring them to a place sympathetic to their magic. It's an experimental bit of charmwork, rather finnicky, and I expect it was drawn here by the property's aura broadcasting its desire for a true master, sort of like a wireless signal that sensitive charms could pick up on."

Harry examined the bangle, fascinated. He had heard of this concept floating around before he had left the Aurors, but never seen one make it into action. However, portkey access was usually tightly regulated. When he raised this with Malfoy, the man shrugged. “My work puts me in dangerous situations, my employer has a license for it. It’s all above board, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No, I didn’t mean— I’m not accusing you of anything” Harry said quickly. He was conscious that, contrary to his expectations, the man before him was being far more courteous than he’d expected. Suddenly, he was filled with the desire to maintain this level of cordiality. “What do you do, then? I hadn’t heard anything about you working, not that I would have, right?”

At this, Malfoy actually looked put out. “I guess I’ve not been doing my job well enough. I’m an investigative journalist, Potter.”

Harry could feel his face shifting. “Oh, I see. Very clever, Malfoy. I should have known this would be some kind of ploy.” Malfoy’s eyes widened. Harry felt his rage brewing, knowing he’d caught him out. “Can’t you people just leave me the fuck alone? I quit my job, I stop going outside, I thought that was a very clear message, but no, you—you, of all people—have to trick your way into my  _ house _ ”—he was on his feet now, shouting—“just to find out what Potter’s up to? GET THE FUCK OUT! GO ON, GET OUT BEFORE I HEX YOU!”

The table was shaking. The cup in front of Malfoy was cracking. Malfoy stood up and moved swiftly to the door, never taking his eyes off Harry. He wasn’t holding a wand, but Harry could tell from the position of his hands that just a flick of the wrist would draw it out to point in his direction, and wrenched his own wand roughly from the pocket of his robes, waving it at the blond. “Don’t you dare come back!”

The door slammed. The house was silent. Harry flicked his wand and Malfoy’s scarf, left hanging by the door, levitated into the air. He wasn’t taking any chances; it was probably some magical scrying device, or reverse portkey, or something that some malicious bastard had cooked up to spy on him. He was trembling, he realised. He’d come so close to believing Malfoy had changed, that he was being honest, that he wanted to help—but no, it was a trick. Of course it was.

Harry returned to the kitchen. The tap had burst and the sink was full to the brim, moments from overflowing. With a wordless roar, Harry brandished his wand at it, freezing the air around the leak and sculpting it into a rough boulder of ice. The expenditure of nonverbal magic calmed him even as he felt it pull at his magical reserves, and he spent another minute carefully shaping the ice into a perfect, glassy sphere. 

Whatever lies Malfoy had said, he wasn’t going to listen. Radgarg had said Harry’s magic had been passively protecting him from the Houses malevolence. All he had to do was exert himself, force the property to recognise him as its master. No need for interventions, no need for outside help. He would do it himself, like he always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is of course a reference to the stage play Tea and Sympathy, which was one of the first American stage shows to directly confront themes of masculinity and homosexuality. However, it's also a reference to the excellent Tea and no Sympathy by Who_La_Hoop, found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2734082/chapters/6126311


	3. If one green bottle should intentionally fly at your head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets shamed, shaken and soaked. That's what you get for being rude, Harry!

Harry sat at Ron and Hermione’s kitchen table and sipped at his glass of wine, glad of the warmth that emanated from the large oven beside him. Bright, airy and filled with the trappings of two busy lives, the Granger-Weasley flat felt more homely to Harry than anywhere in Grimmauld Place.

Opposite him, Hermione set her glass down and began to speak, ignoring Ron’s earnest attempts to vacuum the last crumbs of syrup sponge from his bowl. “I know you don’t like the press, Harry, and goodness knows you’ve got reason enough. But, well, not every publication is the same, you know? Malfoy doesn’t write for Witch Weekly or The Daily Prophet. He wrote a really good article about Anglo-German magical relations in the last issue of Arcane International, and his investigation into the broomstick quality scandal for Quaffle Waffle was very thoroughly researched.” She snorted at Harry’s surprised look, adding “Just because I’m not as obsessed as Ron is doesn’t mean I don’t keep up with current events in the sporting world, Harry. Anyway, my point is, some journalists provide a useful service and, surprised as I am to be saying this, I think Malfoy might be one of the good ones.”

She reached across the table and laid her hand on Harry’s tenderly. “You know you have a bit of a tendency to overreact when it comes to Malfoy, and I say that knowing all the terrible things he did to you and me and everyone in the war. I’m not saying you have to apologise, goodness knows he’s never apologised to any of us, but if you’re going to resolve this, you’ll probably need his help.”

Ron nodded sagely beside his wife. “I hate to admit it Harry, but she’s right. Malfoy wrote a piece on that Batherly case last year, and it’s one of the least stupid articles I’ve ever read about an Auror investigation. He didn’t make a single joke about me. I was almost offended.” The redhead shrugged, putting a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “I asked Bill if he knew anything about this kind of thing, he said it’s not really his area. I think you might be stuck, mate.”

Harry thoughtfully licked the back of his spoon. Now that he looked back, it did seem odd that Malfoy would just give himself away like that if his plan had been to trick Harry into an exclusive interview. And when he had left, he hadn’t been protesting, he’d just gone quietly—with, Harry thought guiltily, a look of fear and confusion on his face. 

“I just… I don’t  _ want _ him to be involved, you know? Maybe he’s not such a bastard these days, but I don’t like him. I wanted to get away from all this, work on myself, do something without being scrutinised by someone with a fucking quill. Why couldn’t it be Neville or someone?” His friends chuckled, but Harry knew he was in the wrong. He’d misjudged Malfoy, let his temper get the better of him, and it was on him to make up for it as best he could.

Ron picked up the bottle of wine and moved towards the living room, saying “Come on, bring your glasses. We don’t do house elves here, remember?” Hermione’s hand moved to swat at his arm, but fell short as she turned to Harry, eyes shining.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of that! I’m such an idiot. Harry, what does Kreacher think? Surely he must know something about this?” Harry flushed, guiltily. He, too, had entirely forgotten the house elf’s existence. “How has he been doing?” 

The problem was, Harry didn’t want a house elf, and Kreacher wanted a master who acted like a Black. Which, Harry supposed, probably meant Kreacher would be delighted by this turn of events. Ever since Harry had moved in, he’d resisted any attempt by Kreacher to help him. Partly, it was because Harry wanted to just live his life like a normal person, sick of being surrounded by well-wishers and do-gooders putting him on a pedestal and tripping over themselves to assist The Chosen One. Kreacher’s odd demeanour and dismay at Harry’s general unBlackishness was another factor, and while he’d managed to temper some of the most offensive mutterings, it was still unpleasant to be in the presence of a being who kept whispering unhappily about his physical appearance, friendship circle, marital status and choice of breakfast cereals.

Of course, Hermione and Ron knew all this. What they didn’t know was that, several months ago, Harry had lost his temper and told the elf in on uncertain tones that he never wanted to see or hear from him again. The elf had taken Harry at his word and vanished, and thankful for the relief, Harry had not called him back. Now, he realised shamefully, he was reminded of the elf’s existence for the first time in weeks.

“Erm… I think he’s alright. I haven’t seen a lot of him”, he said, trying not to wince as he felt himself effortlessly mislead his best friends. “I should ask him about it though, you’re absolutely right. I just didn’t think…”

Hermione tutted. “You know house elves are very capable, intelligent beings, Harry. I had assumed you would have mentioned if he was acting strangely.” Harry’s insides were writhing with shame. Hermione was dedicating her life to improving the situation of house elves and other magical creatures, struggling against the tide of popular opinion and centuries of wizarding cultural tradition, and he had banished his elf back into solitude because he couldn’t work out how to deal with him.

“You’re absolutely right, I should have thought to ask him. Sorry, ‘mione, I’ll bring it up first thing when I get home.” Anticipating her follow-up, he hurriedly added “I won’t bring him here, you know he still struggles being polite around you and I don’t want to drag him about the place for my own convenience.”

Hermione looked satisfied and sat back, thanking Ron as he topped up her glass. Harry resolved to ask Kreacher about it as soon as he got home, then revised his position as Ron stood up to fetch another bottle. It could wait until tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning, Harry awoke shivering. His bedroom window had somehow opened overnight, letting the wet and windy Autumn weather trespass into the naturally chilly room. He grabbed at his wand and cast a nonverbal charm to shut the window, but gasped as it stuck in the frame and his arm was forced backwards as if he’d run into a wall. It hurt, and for perhaps the first time, Harry was truly struck by the seriousness of his situation. He recalled the words of the various people he had consulted over the past few days, realising that each of them had warned him in one way or another that the magic opposing him wasn’t to be trifled with. 

“Kreacher.” There was no answer. “Kreacher?” Nothing. “Kreacher!” Once again, the elf failed to materialise.

Harry pulled himself out of bed, shrugging on a dressing gown and wincing at the twinge in his shoulder. He approached the window cautiously, expecting further trouble, but it allowed him to slide it closed and drop the latch in place without protest. Once that was out of the way, he pulled open the bedroom door and strode down the corridor, calling out the elf’s name as he made his way through the house.

Kreacher’s den in the kitchen cupboard was bare, missing the less dangerous trophies Harry had allowed him to keep or the pile of rags on which he usually slept. The sight of the place gave Harry a jolt of discomfort, sharply reminding him of the cupboard under the stairs in which he had spent his childhood—but then, what was he supposed to do, he wondered? Kreacher had adamantly refused to take a room in the house, refused to make any clothing for himself out of anything other than worn out dishcloths, refused, in short, to accept any gesture of goodwill or softness from Harry.

At the same time, Kreacher had been doing his utmost to force Harry into a mould that he just didn’t fit. For nearly eight months after Harry had started working as an Auror, he had awoken every morning to find lavish dress robes woven from exquisite fabrics and tastefully lined with gemstones hanging, cleaned and pressed, beside his bedroom mirror. Harry had asked him not to do it, told him that it wasn’t suitable, that he had to wear his Auror robes, that he couldn’t go undercover looking like that, and the elf would have none of it. Every request, instruction or complaint was met with the same polite disregard, followed by barely audible muttering about how Kreacher despaired, how the House of Black was dead.

Harry moved towards the cellar door. He had rarely visited the place, finding it horribly creepy in ways he couldn’t articulate. The place was cold, and dark, and filled with dusty bottles of what could be absurdly valuable wines and spirits, or horrifying potion ingredients. It was an obvious place to continue his search. Lighting up his wand, he peered down the gloomy stairwell, and once again called out the house elf’s name to no avail.

Sighing, he began down the steps. It just wasn’t fair, he thought. He might not quite be able to match Hermione’s zeal for interspecies equality, but Harry still cared deeply about house elf rights, of course he did. The whole idea of owning a slave who was bound to follow his orders made him deeply uncomfortable, and he had no desire to use that power to force Kreacher to behave in a way that so obviously made him uncomfortable. But at the same time, he couldn’t just let him do as he pleased, making Harry’s life harder. 

Harry reached the bottom step and gazed half-heartedly at the cavernous cellar walls stretching into the darkness. The one time he’d threatened to give Kreacher clothes, the elf had immediately broken into hysterical sobs, screaming and crying at the prospect of being forced out of his house. In many ways, he’d thought the new arrangement a relief: the elf could go and find his own entertainment, freed from the burden of wrestling with Harry on a daily basis without being banished from the home he loved, and Harry could go about his business unmolested. But what if he’d just been torturing the elf? 

As he wandered through the cellar, poking his head between row after row of bottle-lined shelves—had this place always been so big?—the quiet was interrupted by a soft rustling noise. Harry stopped immediately and began scanning the room. He might have left the Aurors, but his instincts were still finely honed. It had sounded like paper, or a thin ratty fabric, scratching along the floor. Suddenly, Harry was struck by a horrible thought: what if Kreacher was responsible for this? Calling Malfoy to the house was well within the elf’s power—he could easily control the lights, or mess with the taps, or make a window stick… could a house elf go rogue like that?

The rustling noise had ceased the moment Harry had noticed it, and as he scanned the cellar, his mouth dry, he couldn’t see any signs of movement. Logically, he knew that if the elf really was behind the increasingly violent incidents, then there would be no safety anywhere in the house, but the voice in his head telling him to get the hell out of the cellar right now was screaming louder. He tensed and broke into a sudden sprint towards the stairs. As he did so, there was an almighty crashing noise behind him, but he didn’t turn his back, not wanting to lose even a fraction of a second. As he pelted up the staircase, panting, he could hear the sound of bottles exploding, one after another. He slammed the door behind him and the noise stopped, instantly. 

Harry didn’t pause. Wand still in hand, he ran through the downstairs hallway, grabbing his coin pouch from the hall table and a cloak off the pegs by the wall, and went straight out of the house. He didn’t even look back as the door shut behind him, striding onto the pavement and walking without even thinking about where he was going.

* * *

Harry sat on a bench in Highbury Fields, sipping at a cup of coffee. An umbrella charm would have been suspicious, but long stakeouts had conditioned him to miserable weather, and his cloak was charmed to keep him warm despite the autumnal rain. Now that he had spent some time calming down and collecting his thoughts, aided by a slightly stale croissant, he had returned once again to the conclusion that he was an idiot.

He’d jumped to conclusions about Malfoy, who had actually been offering to help, turning his investigative nose on an old school rival instead of thinking like a proper Auror and looking at the case and working out who actually had means, motive and opportunity. Kreacher fit all three, and unfortunately, that meant he just couldn’t ask Hermione for help, which in turn meant Ron was off the cards as well.

Even if this wasn’t a malicious act by the elf, and Harry was pretty certain it was, the fact remained that his house really was no longer safe to stay in, and the only person who’d given any indication that they’d be able to assist him was a surprisingly pleasant blond journalist who only the previous day, he’d screamed at like a complete arse. 

Finishing the drags of his drink, Harry stood up and made his way through the city streets towards The Leaky Cauldron, dipping into a side road briefly to pull a glamour over his face. After slipping through the pub and into the heart of Wizarding London, he headed to the post office, where he drafted a note to Malfoy.

> Malfoy,
> 
> I’ve had very bad experiences with journalists in the past and I wasn’t thinking clearly what with everything else that’s been going on. I owe you an apology. If you’ll accept it, and a drink, I’ll be staying at The Leaky Cauldron tonight under the name Harold Dursley.
> 
> HP

He watched as the owl whisked away through the air, then trudged back to the pub to acquire a room and a stiff drink, hoping he hadn’t messed up his best chance of keeping his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to stop halfway through this to work out what year I'd set it in, just to determine what large coffee chain Harry could be frequenting. Didn't even name it in the end. But now I know that Harry is 25 in this story and Starbucks launched in the UK market in 1998, so... it's all good research.
> 
> Also, I came up with the name 'Quaffle Waffle' before remembering that Quidditch Weekly exists, and I like my name better, so suck it JK.


End file.
